The mask is falling fast.--Harold.
The day of the great masquerade arrived; and, from an early hour, the
whole household was astir in preparing for the occasion. The courtyard
was thronged with carriages of various sorts. Confectioners from London,
table-deckers from Paris, were there, accompanied by all the insignia of
their callings. Great lumbering packing-cases were strewn about; while
rich stuffs, rare exotics, and costly delicacies littered the stone
benches, and even lay upon the pavement, in all the profusion of haste
and recklessness. To see the rare and rich articles which were heaped
on every side, almost suggested the notion that it was some gorgeous
mansion which was put to pillage. There was that, too, in the lounging
insolence of the servants, as they went, that favored the illusion. The
wanton waste exhibited everywhere was the very triumph of that vulgar
and vindictive spirit which prompts the followers of a spendthrift
master to speed the current of his ruin. Such would seem to be the
invariable influence that boundless profusion exercises on the mind; and
it is thus that affluence, unchastened by taste, unruled by principle,
is always a corrupter!
A light travelling-carriage, with a few articles of travelling use
attached, stood in the midst of this confusion; and shortly after
day-dawn two gentlemen issued from the house, and taking their seats,
drove hastily forth, and at full speed passed down the avenue towards
the high-road.
These were Cashel and Mr. Kennyfeck, who had made an appointment to meet
Mr. Hoare at Killaloe, and proceed with him to Drumcoologan, on which
portion of the estate it was proposed to raise a considerable sum by
mortgage.
Some observation of Mr. Kennyfeck upon the wasteful exhibition of the
scene in the courtyard, was met by a sharp and angry reply from Cashel;
and these were both overheard as they issued forth,--vague words,
spoken thoughtlessly at the time, but to be remembered afterwards with
a heavier significance than the speakers could have anticipated! As they
hastened along, little was said on either side; the trifling irritation
of the first moment created a reserve, which deepened into actual
coldness, as each following out his own thoughts took no heed of his
companion's.
Kennyfeck's mind was full of sad and gloomy forebodings. The reckless
outlay he had witnessed for weeks back was more than a princely fortune
could sustain. The troops of useless servants, the riotous disorder of
the household, the unchecked, unbridled waste on every side, demanded
supplies to raise which they were already reduced to loans at usurious
interest. What was to come of such a career, save immediate and
irretrievable ruin?
As for Cashel, his reveries were even darker still. The whirlwind
current of events seemed to carry him onward without any power of
resistance. He saw his fortune wasted, his character assailed, his
heart-offered proposal rejected--all at once, and as if by the influence
of some evil destiny. Vigorous resolutions for the future warred with
fears lest that they were made too late, and he sat with closed eyes and
compressed lips, silent and sunk in meditation.
Leaving them, therefore, to pursue a journey on which their
companionship could scarcely afford much pleasure to the reader, let
us turn to one who, whatever his other defects, rarely threw away the
moments of his life on unavailing regrets: this was Mr. Linton. If he
was greatly disappointed by the information he gleaned when overhearing
the conversation between Cashel and the doctor, he did not suffer his
anger either to turn him from his path, or distract him from his settled
purpose.
“To-day for ambition!” said he, “to-morrow revenge!”
Too well accustomed to obstacles to be easily thwarted, he recognized
life as a struggle wherein the combatant should never put off his armor.
“She must and shall accept me as her husband; on that I am determined. A
great game, and a glorious stake, shall not be foiled for a silly girl's
humor. Were she less high-flown in her notions, and with more of
the 'world' about her, I might satisfy her scruples, that, of her
affections--her heart, as she would call it--there is no question here.
_Je suis bon prince_,--I never coerce my liege's loyalty. As to the
old man, his dotage takes the form of intrepidity, so that it might
be unsafe to use menace with him. The occasion must suggest the proper
tactic.”
And with this shrewd resolve he set forth to pay his visit at the
cottage. If in his step and air, as he went, none could have read the
lover's ardor, there was that in his proud carriage and glancing eye
that bespoke a spirit revelling in its own sense of triumph.
While Mr. Linton is thus pursuing his way, let us use the privilege
of our craft by anticipating him, and taking a peep at that cottage
interior in which he is so soon to figure. Old Mr. Corrigan had arisen
from his bed weary and tired: a night of sleepless care weighed heavily
on him; and he sat at his untasted breakfast with all the outward signs
of a sick man.
Mary Leicester, too, was pale and sad-looking; and although she tried
to wear her wonted smile, and speak with her accustomed tones, the heavy
eyelids and the half-checked sighs that broke from her at times betrayed
how sad was the spirit from which they came.
“I have been dreaming of that old nunnery at Bruges all night, Mary,”
said her grandfather, after a long and unbroken silence; “and you cannot
think what a hold it has taken of my waking thoughts. I fancied that I
was sitting in the little parlor, waiting to see you, and that, at
last, a dark-veiled figure appeared at the grille, and beckoned me to
approach. I hastened to do so, my heart fluttering with I know not what
mixture of hope and fear,--the hope it might be you, and then the
fear, stronger than even hope, that I should read sadness in that sweet
face--sorrow, Mary--regret for leaving that world you never were to see
more.”
“And was it me, dearest papa?”
“No, Mary,” said he, with a lower and more meaning tone, “it
was another, one whom I never saw before. She came to tell me
that--that”--he faltered, and wiping a tear from his eyes, made an
effort to seem calm--“that I had lost you, darling! lost by a separation
darker and more terrible than even the iron bars of a nunnery can make.
And although I bethought me that you had but gone there, whither I
myself was hastening, I felt sorrow-struck by the tidings. I had clung
so long to the hope of leaving you behind me here, to enjoy that world
of which all your affectionate care has denied you enjoyment--to know
how, amidst its troubles and reverses, there are healing springs of love
that recompense its heaviest inflictions--I cherished this wish so
long, so ardently, that I could not face the conviction which told me it
should never be.”
“Dearest papa, remember this was but a dream; bethink you, for an
instant, that it was all unreal; that I am beside you, my hand in yours,
my head upon your shoulder; that we are not parted, nor ever shall be.”
The tone of deep fervor in which she spoke drew tears from the old man's
eyes, and he turned away to hide them.
“It was but a dream, as you say, Mary; but do not my waking thoughts
conjure up a future to the full as gloomy? A few months, at furthest,
a year or so more--less sanguine prophets would perhaps say weeks--and
where shall I be? and where you, Mary?”
The old man's grief could no longer be restrained, and it was in a
perfect burst of sorrow the last words came forth. She would have
spoken, but she knew not from what source to draw consolation. The
future, which to his eyes looked dark and lowering, presented an aspect
no less gloomy to her own; and her only remedy against its depressing
influence was to make her present cares occupy her mind, to the
exclusion of every other thought.
“And yet, Mary,” said he, recovering something of his habitual tone,
“there is an alternative--one which, if we could accept of it from
choice as freely as we might adopt it from convenience, would solve our
difficulties at once. My heart misgives me, dearest, as I approach it.
I tremble to think how far my selfishness may bias you--how thoughts of
_me_ old and worthless as I am, may rise uppermost in your breast
and gain the mastery, where other and very different feelings should
prevail. I have ever been candid with you, my child, and I have reaped
all the benefit of my frankness; let me then tell you all. An offer has
been made for your hand, Mary, by one who, while professing the utmost
devotion to you, has not forgotten your old grandfather. He asks that
he should be one of us, Mary--a new partner in our firm--a new member in
the little group around our hearth. He speaks like one who knew the ties
that bind us most closely--he talks of our home here as we ourselves
might do--he has promised that we shall never leave it, too. Does your
heart tell you whom I mean, Mary? If not, if you have not already
gone before me in all I have been saying, his visions of happiness are
baseless fabrics. Be candid with me, as I have ever been with you. It is
a question on which everything of the future hangs; say if you guess of
whom I speak.”
Mary Leicester's cheek grew scarlet; she tried to speak, but could not;
but with a look far more eloquent than words, she pressed the old man's
hand to her lips, and was silent.
“I was right then, Mary; you have guessed him. Now, my sweet child,
there is one other confession you must make me, or leave me to divine it
from that crimson cheek. Have his words found an echo in your heart?”
The old man drew her more closely to his side, and passed his arm around
her as he spoke; while she, with heaving bosom and bent-down head,
seemed struggling with an agitation she could not master. At last she
said,--
“You have often told me, papa, that disproportion of fortune was an
insurmountable obstacle to married happiness; that the sense of perfect
equality in condition was the first requisite of that self-esteem
which must be the basis of an affection free and untrammelled from all
unworthy considerations.”
“Yes, dearest; I believe this to be true.”
“Then, surely, the present is not a case in point; for while there is
wealth and influence on one side, there are exactly the opposites on the
other. If _he_ be in a position to make his choice among the great and
titled of the land, _my_ destiny lies among the lowly and humble. What
disparity could be greater?”
“When I spoke of equality,” said the old man, “I referred rather to that
of birth and lineage than to any other; I meant that social equality
by which uniformity of tastes and habits are regulated. There is no
_mésalliance_ where good blood runs on both sides.”
This was the tenderest spot in the old man's nature; the pride of
family surviving every successive stroke of fortune, or, rather, rising
superior to them all.
“I thought, moreover,” said Mary, “that in his preference of me, there
was that suddenness which savored more of caprice than deep conviction.
How should I reckon upon its lasting? What evidence have I that he cares
for the qualities which will not change in me, and not for those which
spring from youth and happiness?--for I am happy, dearest pa; so happy
that, with all our trials and difficulties, I often accuse myself of
levity--insensibility even--feeling so light-hearted as I do.”
The old man looked at her with rapture, and then pressed his lips upon
her forehead.
“From all this, then, I gather, Mary,” said he, smiling archly, “that,
certain misgivings apart, the proposition is not peculiarly disagreeable
to you?”
“I am sure I have not said so,” said she, confusedly.
“No, dearest; only looked it. But stay, I heard the wicket close--there
is some one coming. I expected Tiernay on a matter of business. Leave us
together, child; and, till we meet, think over what we 've been saying.
Remember, too, that although I would not influence your decision, my
heart would be relieved of its heaviest load if this could be.”
Mary Leicester arose hastily and retired, too happy to hide, in the
secrecy of her own room, that burst of emotion which oppressed her, and
whose utterance she could no longer restrain.
Scarcely had she gone, when Linton crossed the grass-plot, and entered
the cottage. A gentle tap at the door of the drawing-room announced
him, and he entered. A more acute observer than Mr. Corrigan might have
remarked that the deferential humility so characteristic of his manner
was changed for an air of more purpose-like determination. He came
to carry a point by promptness and boldness; and already his bearing
announced the intention.
After a few words of customary greeting, and an inquiry more formal
than cordial for Miss Leicester's health, he assumed an air of solemn
purpose, and said,--
“You will not accuse me of undue impatience, my dear Mr. Corrigan, nor
think me needlessly pressing, if I tell you that I have come here this
morning to learn the answer to my late proposition. Circumstances have
occurred at the hall to make my remaining there, even another day,
almost impossible. Cashel's last piece of conduct is of such a nature as
to make his acquaintance as derogatory as his friendship.”
“What was it?”
“Simply this. Lord Kilgoff has at length discovered what all the world
has known for many a day back; and, in his passionate indignation, the
poor old man has been seized with a paralytic attack.”
Mr. Corrigan passed his hand across his brow, as if to clear away some
terrible imagination, and sat then pale, silent, and attentive, as
Linton went on,--
“The most heartless is yet to come! While this old man lies stretched
upon his bed--insensible and dying--this is the time Cashel selects to
give a great entertainment, a ball, to above a thousand people. It is
almost too much for belief--so I feel it myself. The palsied figure of
his victim--his victim, do I say? there are two: that miserable woman,
who sits as paralyzed by terror as he is by disease--might move any man
from such levity; but Cashel is superior to such timidity; he fancies,
I believe, that this ruffian hardihood is manliness, that brutal
insensibility means courage, and so he makes his house the scene of an
orgy, when his infamy has covered it with shame. I see how this affects
you, sir; it is a theme on which I would never have touched did it not
concern my own fortunes. For me, the acquaintance of such a man is no
longer possible. For the sake of that unhappy woman, whom I knew in
better days--to cover, as far as may be, the exposure that sooner or
later must follow her fault--I am still here. You will, therefore,
forgive my importunity if I ask if Miss Leicester has been informed of
my proposal, and with what favor she deigns to regard it.”
“I have told my granddaughter, sir,” said the old man, tremulously, “we
have talked together on the subject; and while I am not able to speak
positively of her sentiments towards you, it strikes me that they are
assuredly not unfavorable. The point is, however, too important to admit
a doubt: with your leave, we will confer together once again.”
“Might I not be permitted to address the young lady myself, sir? The
case too nearly concerns all my future happiness to make me neglect
whatever may conduce to its accomplishment.”
The old man hesitated; he knew not well what reply to make. At length he
said,--
“Be it so, Mr. Linton; you shall have this permission. I only ask,
that before you do so, we should clearly and distinctly understand each
other. _We_ are of the world, and can discuss its topics, man to man.
With _her_, the matter rests on other and very different grounds.”
“Of course; so I understand the permission, sir,” said Linton,
courteously, “on the distinct understanding that her acceptance alone is
wanting to fill up the measure of my wishes.”
“Is it necessary that I should repeat that I am totally destitute of
fortune--that the humble means I possess expire with me, and that I am
as poor in influence as in all else?”
“I have sufficient for both, sir, for all that moderate wishes can
desire. Pray do not add a word upon the subject.”
“I must be explicit, Mr. Linton, however wearisome to you the theme.
You will pardon an old man's prolixity, in consideration for the motives
which prompt it. We have absolutely nothing of our once powerful family,
save the name and the escutcheon,--mementos to remind us of our fall!
They did, indeed, say, some time back, that our title to the estate
afforded strong grounds for litigation--that there were points of
considerable importance--”
“May I interrupt you, sir?” said Linton, laying his hand on Corrigan's
arm. “A subject so full of regrets to _you_ can never be a pleasing
topic to _me_. I am fully as rich as a man like myself could desire; and
I trust to personal exertions for whatever I may wish to add in the way
of ambition.”
“And with good reason, sir,” said Corrigan, proudly. “There are no
failures to those who unite honesty of purpose with fine abilities. I
will not add a word. Go--speak to my granddaughter: I tell you frankly
my best wishes go with you.”
Linton smiled a look of deep gratitude, and moved towards the door.
“One second more,” cried Corrigan, as the other laid his hand on the
lock; “it may soon be, that, as a member of our family, you would have
the right to express a will on the subject we have been talking of. I
would wish to say, that, as I have abandoned all desire to contest this
question, I should equally expect the same line of conduct from you.”
“Can you doubt it, sir--or is it necessary that I should give my
promise?”
“I hope and trust not. But having myself given a written pledge, under
my own hand and seal, to Mr. Cashel, surrendering all right and title to
this estate--”
“Who gave this?” said Linton, turning suddenly round, and relinquishing
his hold upon the lock of the door. “Who gave this?”
“I gave it.”
“To whom?”
“To Mr. Cashel, in the presence of his agent.”
“When?” exclaimed Linton, from whose pale features, now, intense
agitation had banished all disguise. “When did you give it?”
“Within a fortnight.”
“And this document--this release, was formal and explicit?”
“Perfectly so. I knew enough of law to make it obligatory. I stated the
conditions for which it was given,--certain concessions that Mr. Cashel
had lately granted me, respecting this small property.”
Linton sat down, and covered his face with both hands. The trouble of
his feelings had carried him far away from all thought of concealment,
and of the part which so long he had been playing. Indeed, so insensible
was he to every consideration save one, that he forgot Corrigan's
presence--forgot where he was; and in the paroxysm of his baffled
purpose, muttered half aloud broken curses upon the insane folly of the
old man's act.
“I am compelled to remind you, sir, that I am a listener,” said Mr.
Corrigan, whose face, suffused with a flush of anger, showed that the
insulting remarks had been overheard by him.
“And this was done without advice or consultation with any one?” said
Linton, not heeding the last remark, nor the look that accompanied it.
“I was free then, sir, to speak my gratitude, as I now am to utter my
indignation that you should dare to canvass _my_ acts and question _my_
motives, both of which are above your control.”
Linton stared at him almost vacantly; his own thoughts, and not the old
man's words, had possession of his mind. With a rapidity of computation
in which few were his equals, he ran over all the varying chances of
success which had accompanied his game,--the pains he had taken to avert
all cause of failure; the unwearying attention he had given to every
minute point and doubtful issue,--and now, here, at the very last, came
the ruin of all his plans, and wreck of all his hopes.
“You have said enough--more than enough, sir--to show me how
disinterested were the views in which you sought my granddaughter in
marriage,” said Corrigan, haughtily; “nor would it much surprise me,
now, were I to discover that he who is so skilful a double-dealer may be
no less expert as a calumniator. I will beg you to leave my house this
instant.”
“Not so fast, sir,” said Linton, assuming a seat, and at once regaining
that insolent composure for which he was noted; “I have not that
generous warmth of character which is so conspicuous in _you_. I have
never given Mr. Cashel a release of any obligation I possess upon him.
This house is _mine_, sir--mine by legal transfer and right; and it is
_you_ who are the intruder!”
The old man staggered backwards, and leaned against the wall; a clammy
perspiration covered his face and forehead, and he seemed sick to the
very death. It was some time before he could even utter a word; and
then, as with clasped hands and uplifted eyes he spoke, the fervor of
his words told that they were heart-spoken. “Thank God for this! but for
it, and I had given my child to a scoundrel!”
“Scarcely polite, sir, and, perhaps, scarcely politic,” said Linton,
with his treacherous half-smile. “It would be as well to bear in mind
how we stand toward each other.”
“As enemies, open and declared,” cried Corrigan, fiercely.
“I should say as creditor and debtor,” said Linton; “but probably we are
speaking in synonyms. Now, sir, a truce to this altercation, for which
I have neither time nor taste. Tell me frankly, can you obtain
repossession of this unlucky document which, in an ill-starred moment,
you parted with? If you can, and will do so, I am willing to resume
the position I occupied towards you half an hour ago. This is plain
speaking, I am aware; but how much better than to bandy mock courtesies,
in which neither of us have any faith! We are both men of the world--I,
at least, have no shame in saying that I am such. Let us then be frank
and business-like.”
“You have at last filled up the measure of your insults, sir,” said
Corrigan, fiercely; “you have dared to speak of me as of yourself.”
“It is a compliment I have not paid a great many, notwithstanding,”
replied Linton, with a languid insolence of manner that contrasted
strongly with the other's natural warmth; “and there are people in this
world would accept it as a flattery; but once more I say, let us abandon
this silly squabble. Will you, or will you not, accept my proposal? I am
ready to purchase the wreck as she lies upon the rocks, wave-tossed and
shattered. Is it not better to give me the chance of floating her, than
see her go to pieces before your eyes, and drift piecemeal into the wide
ocean?”
“Leave me, sir--leave me! =” was all the old man could utter.
“If I take you at your word,” said Linton, rising, “remember that the
last gleam of hope for you departs when I close that door behind me. I
warn you that I am little given to relenting.”
“Insolent scoundrel!” cried Corrigan, carried away by indignation.
“Unhandsomely spoken, old gentleman; such words are ill-befitting gray
hairs and palsied hands, but I forgive them. I repeat, however, my
nature is not over-disposed to forgiveness; an injury with me is like
a malady that leaves its mark behind it. The day may come when all
your entreaties, aided even by the fair supplications of a more gentle
penitent--”
“If you dare, sir!” cried Corrigan, interrupting; and the insolence,
schooled and practised in many a trial, quailed before the look and
gesture of the old man.
“You shall have your choice, then,” said Linton. “From henceforth you
will have to confess that I am not a secret enemy.” And so saying,
he opened the sash which led into the garden and passed out, leaving
Corrigan overcome by emotion, and almost panic-stricken.
The deceptions which are practised on youth are seldom attended with
lasting influence; but when they fall upon a heart chilled and saddened
by age, they are stunning in their effect, and seldom, or never, admit
of relief.